


from one megalomaniacal rock to another

by dalekchung



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Rigel Black Chronicles - murkybluematter
Genre: Biblical References, Gen, Inspired by The Rigel Black Chronicles, M/M, This was supposed to be crack, jk we die like boots, my typing speed literally cannot keep up with my brain please send help, no beta we die like Caerry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29709093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalekchung/pseuds/dalekchung
Summary: The Dominion Jewel and the Rod of Zuriel aren’t friends. But once, in a different lifetime, they were—and much more
Relationships: Dominion Jewel/Rod of Zuriel, rock/rock
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. in the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This was a very sudden bunny...I had to at least attempt it! It's also supposed to be crack... ANYWAY, I wrote most of this in between internship duties, so my writing quality has suffered greatly. I didn't know how to fix it, but enjoy!

He had been wandering across a vast desert by foot for longer than he could remember. He was naked for the entirety of his pilgrimage (where had his clothes gone?), and the sun bore down on his neck and back, scorching and flaying his dry skin. The upper layers of his skin curling away from his body, flaking off as he moved—he could feel it. Yet, he felt no pain.

He glanced down at his dark feet, which contrasted starkly against the sand. His bones stood out sharply under his skin, giving him a mummified appearance. Each step met burning red-yellow sand, and he knew he should feel burning pain in the soles of his feet—gritty, rough sand tearing at his skin. Hot air curling around his frame. If he stopped to imagine the sensations, he could feel some sort of phantom pain, but even his dehydrated body knew it was not even a fraction accurate.

Dehydration.

How long could a human survive without water? How long had he been walking? Had he cast a cooling charm on his body a moment before? Had he summoned water? He held a hand out, wordlessly calling for water.

Nothing came.

And then he remembered. He remembered the thousands of years he had spent, trapped in this prison of his own doing. The loneliness that formed the bars of his jail. The moments of clarity and the moments of obscurity. If he flexed his magic, he could feel himself contained, right up to the edges of the jewel he inhabited. If he paused, he remembered his name. The Dominion Jewel.

No. That wasn’t quite right.

He had fought, he had conquered, and he had _lived_. All before becoming the Dominion Jewel.

If only he could remember his name…

-x-

“Nakhti!”

In the central room of their noble house, twelve-year-old Nakhti froze in place at his mother’s call, a single finger outstretched towards the wall. Freezing in place did nothing to stop the magic from dancing out of his fingertips and soaring into the beige wall opposite him. Nakhti could feel his magic right up to when it collided with the surface. Beige bled into an obnoxious orange color, filling the whole panel, then continuing to the adjacent wall. Nakhti followed the trail of orange, a playful grin dancing onto his face as he lowered his hand. His eyes were beginning to water from the delightful brightness, but yet the wall still felt empty. He waved a second finger at the wall and a crudely painted ox blinked into existence, teetering back and forth before finding its balance. It snorted and charged off onto the next wall.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mother was at his shoulder before he could blink. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, spinning him around. Nakhti gulped, staring down at the straps of Mother’s sandals. A coil of Mother’s magic whipped free and pulled his chin up. And there she was: Mother in all her imposing glory, stern glower in place. She was absolutely terrifying, even though to the outsider, she looked like a typical noble wife. She was clad in sheer, dainty linen that had been cut and hemmed to perfection. Her sleeves were pleated, and golden patterns were embroidered on the hems. She held no discernible weapon, which Nakhti thought was clever, if she wanted everyone to underestimate her. A large, round amulet hung around her neck, a glittering red gemstone set in the middle. Easily, this could be written off as expensive jewelry, albeit quite minimalistic, but Nakhti knew the truth. The amulet was Mother’s focus. She had (what she liked to call) refined magic that was difficult to channel sometimes. Similarly, Nakhti was supposed to get a focus when his magical education begun at five, when his magic manifested, but his magic was decidedly different. None of the magical foci could properly handle his wild magic, and he went through more than he could count. Some shuddered and cracked when he tried forcing magic through it. Others tried to wiggle out of his hand, and when finding his grip was too tight, burned him.

Nakhti did not like magical foci.

Mother’s eyes drifted away from his own and onto the snorting ox. With a sigh and a flick of her fingers, the walls turned back to the original color, “You must stop with that. Your father’s visitors are beginning to think they are receiving divine prophecies.”

“They _are_ divine, coming from me,” Nakhti grinned. His mother remained staunchly unamused with her arms folded across her chest and an arched eyebrow. At this, his smile faded into a scowl of his own. “The pretenders deserve it! They come in, lying about their magic, and then order us around! So what if they see things?”

Mother sighed, the exasperation nearly tangible, “That doesn’t mean you can drive them mad, Nakhti.”

He really didn’t see the problem. They were considered mad by the public anyway. Or sacred. Whatever the difference was.

“You’ll be starting your training soon,” Mother placed a hand on his shoulder. Her fingers dug into his flesh, leaving crescent-moon-shaped marks on his skin. “I don’t want to hear that from your Master for this kind of behavior. Do you understand?”

Nakhti scowled at the tightening hand on his shoulder—the way his bones seemed to bend slightly at her grip. His mother could easily snap his bones and mend him, he knew—and she had before. It had been a painful ordeal, and she had commanded his silent obedience for five whole months afterwards.

If there was only one thing he hated, it was that Nakhti hated being controlled.

“Take your hand off of me, Mother,” he all but snarled, lifting his eyes to meet Mother’s. He could see his reflection in her dark brown eyes. He stared into his reflection’s eyes, injecting silent will into his words. He wanted the pain to stop—his bones to strengthen—his mother to _let go._

Mother’s eyes, normally so dark that Nakhti had a hard time differentiating the brown from the black parts of her eyes, flared bright red—the same shade as the gem in the amulet around her neck—and she stepped back, hand dropping to her side.

Nakhti smiled. He was powerful, and he was going to do great things.


	2. the master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what am i doing ;-;

Master Akil. Any respectable magic-user would have cowered in both fear and awe by the sound of his name. That was what Mother and Father said to Nakhti—Mother, out of reverence, and Father, out of begrudging respect. Master Akil was, first and foremost, a war hero. He had led conquests at behest of the Pharaoh and was often called to advise nobility. Drowning half of a city due to an uncooperative leader was his favorite method of coercion—Mother had whispered to him once, eyes glossy with unreserved admiration—though most non-magical men thought these were outrageous stories.

The master was also well-known as a harsh teacher. Students who went to Master Akil, asking for an apprenticeship, were turned away. On the rare occasion that a student caught his eye, the master would administer a series of tests. There was no talk of what these tests were, and it was suspected that the master cursed each student so that they could not speak of it. Either way, only one or two students were selected every few years, and most of them left within a month.

Nakhti was determined not to be like any of them. And now, on his thirteenth birthday, he was going to meet the man!

Master Akil lived outside of the city, away from the Nile River. The air was dryer and acrid, especially further out in the desert, but with a hasty wave at his body, Nakhti was at a comfortable temperature, despite the sun beating down on his body. His wild magic was always overeager, acting without his direct approval, and within a few moments, a small, white cloud formed above his head, blocking out the sunlight. Nakhti grinned.

He saw Master Akil’s grand estate in the distance before he realized what it was. At first, Nakhti thought he might be hallucinating. After all, he had been traveling for most of the day, laden with a heavy travel pack and his iron khopesh strapped to his hip.

He stopped for a moment, asking his magic politely to please-give-me-some-water, and as he sipped happily at the cool liquid, Nakhti surveyed the barren desert in front of him. He knew he was heading in the right direction—his magic nodded enthusiastically whenever he asked if he was still on the right track—so Nakhti wasn’t too concerned. Still, the journey was boring, and he wished he could see more than just vultures picking at human remains. Unfortunate humans. (Nakhti couldn’t bother to summon any sympathy for them. Only the strongest survived, and he couldn’t help it if the strongest were magic-users like himself).

Something glinted at the edge of his vision, and Nakhti turned, perking at the change in scenery. He searched on the horizon for the glinting object, but no matter how he strained his eyes, he couldn’t find the glinting object again. Frowning, Nakhti took another step forward. Instantly, burning pain shot up the sides of his foot, and he hissed, drawing back. In his eagerness, he had forgotten to maintain his cooling protection. Sandals could only do so much to protect him.

As he bent forward to inspect his slightly cooked foot, Nakhti saw it again—out of his peripheral vision. It glimmered gold, and when Nakhti noticed it just a _little_ too much, the image flickered from view. It was magic to steer away unwelcome guests: both magic-users and non-magical guests. Nakhti didn’t know much about those types of magic, but Mother always brushed her amulet through his hair and the pretenders, the non-magical folk, wouldn’t notice him for the duration of their stay. The magic always felt like little raindrops trailing across his skin, and he found that if he lifted one of the magical droplets, he could place it on one of the pretenders. It was always amusing to watch the fake magic-users grow more and more frustrated by the lack of attention from their colleagues.

Knowing this, Nakhti straightened, facing the area where he had seen the glimmering gold. Now, it was just the simple act of asking his magic to unravel the magic that was affecting him…

The horizon seemed to blur for a fraction of a second as he magic eagerly went to dissolve the illusion before his eyes. Nakhti blinked, reaching up to rub at his eyes. And there it was, closer than Nakhti had previously thought.

It seemed more like a small city than a dwelling for one man. Rooftops sparkled, painted with a brilliant metallic gold. A wall—tall enough to protect the inner buildings, yet short enough so that Nakhti could still see the rooftops—surrounded the miniature city. But it wasn’t the golden buildings that made him gape. It wasn’t even the walls. No, it was the sheer amount of _greenness_ on top of the wall that took Nakhti’s breath away. Different trees and bushes dotted the top of the wall, and water cascaded over the sides like a waterfall—no doubt the work of a powerful magic-user.

His feet, suddenly light and a tad bit too cold, propelled him forward, and Nakhti jogged the entire way to the front gates.

-x-

Master Akil was not what Nakhti had imagined him to be. The master was tall and imposing in his head, hardened with war. Master Akil seemed just the opposite of that. He was a short man—shorter than Nakhti himself—and plump enough to be deemed wealthy by the common man. He wore plain clothes, and if it weren’t for the multitude of colorful gems encircling his neck, wrists, and fingers, Nakhti could have mistaken him for a slave of a noble family. Even the taste of his tantalizing magic, which hung thick in the air as he passed by the wards, seemed weaker, now that the master was standing in front of him. Overall, Nakhti was disappointed.

“You have a letter?” Master Akil thrust out a jewel encrusted hand expectantly, not bothering to ask for Nakhti’s name or who had sent him. He scowled. The master hadn’t even invited him to step foot inside his city, given him water, or done anything a good host should have!

Biting his lip (Mother would be so angry if she learned he made a bad first impression on Master Akil), Nakhti nodded and dug out the letter from his father, handing it to the master without hesitation. What he didn’t expect was for Master Akil to barely lay eyes on the papyrus, then set fire to it without so much of a blink.

“Hey!” Nakhti started forward with a yelp, “My father wrote that recommendation!”

“Yeah,” Master Akil grunted, eyeing Nakhti as if he were a particularly amusing dung-beetle that had somehow flipped himself on his back and couldn’t re-equilibrate itself. “And I know Khenti is a proud fool that never accepted my help.”

“He’s not a fool!” Nakhti argued, one hand darting to the hilt of his khopesh.

Master Akil waved him off, unconcerned, “And I don’t accept students with recommendations from their parents. You all think you are entitled to something because your family is wealthy. Piss off, kid.”

Nakhti felt his blood boil as the master turned away, letting the ashes of his ruined letter drift out of one hand.

“I’m not entitled!” he snarled, taking a step forward, drawing his khopesh out with practiced ease. His heart beat wildly in his chest. “I’m _powerful_ and _worthy_ , and I demand you to take me as an apprentice!”

Nakhti’s voice was amplified by his swirling magic. It was turbulent, scattering sand outwards like a miniature storm. Master Akil paused at the door as his magic physically grabbed him by the shoulder, and Nakhti’s heart leapt yet again, this time in silent victory. He had a way of persuading others what to do, and he had been practicing his gift. It was about time his work was paid off. 

Master Akil was turning back. To accept _him!_

But no. His eyes weren’t the same familiar bright red that Nakhti was used to seeing. He was merely apathetic, raising a doubtful eyebrow at the sharp outer edge of Nakhti’s khopesh.

“You can’t demand someone to teach you,” he chuckled, raising a jeweled finger and touching the sharp edge of the blade. Instantly, Nakhti felt his body lock in place—his muscles froze and suddenly, it took more of his mental capacity to remind himself to breathe. Nakhti gasped, but it felt like even the air at his mouth was frozen. Worst of all was his magic. It was trapped, bound to the surface of his skin. It writhed in agony, slamming itself against its confinement. Nakhti struggled to break free, attempting to lash out physically where his magic pushed. But Master Akil had an iron grip on him.

Master Akil eyed him, the fake smile dropping from his face. He took his finger off of Nakhti’s khopesh, but there was no relief. He was still frozen. Suspended. Powerless.

The master circled him lazily, “Where’s your magical focus, boy?”

“I don’t have one,” Nakhti spat, his head and neck suddenly free to move. He glared at Master Akil as he resumed his position in front of him. “I don’t need one.”

Master Akil did not look impressed at this notion, “Most with the gift of dominion do not.”

Dominion? Nakhti liked the sound of that.

“And most magic-users with the size of your core would be able to recognize that the soles of your feet are not bound. You should have freed yourself in a matter of moments if you did not let your anger rule you.”

Nakhti stopped glaring long enough to notice that was true before Master Akil released him. He fell forward, almost comically, face-first into the sand.

“It is your thirteenth birthday,” Master Akil ignored the way Nakhti spluttered curses at him through the sand, opting instead to stroke a particularly brilliant emerald around his chest.

“How would you know that?” Nakhti spat out more sand. He glared at the master. “You burnt my letter.”

“Burning it doesn’t mean I don’t remember what it said,” Master Akil fixed cold eyes on Nakhti. “Your father may be a fool, but he knows I cannot leave someone alone on the day their magical core matures. Tricky bastard.”

Nakhti stilled. Did that mean…?

“You’ll be here _one night_ , do you understand? One night only.”

One night became four years.

Four years led Nakhti to Wase.

And Wase was where Nakhti found Zuriel.


End file.
